


Marriageless in Manhattan

by adrianna_m_scovill



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Cliche, F/M, Feelings, Fluff, Marriage Proposal, Promises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 14:01:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20359696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adrianna_m_scovill/pseuds/adrianna_m_scovill
Summary: First, I apologize (half-heartedly at best) for the title. Secondly, I took liberties with their ages, particularly Benson's. A Google search says the character is four years younger than the actress playing the role, but I aged her up a little so I could use some pretty numbers. LMAO.For the Hopes and Tropes marriage pact collection. Benson and Barba agree to get married if they're both otherwise unattached by a specific deadline.





	Marriageless in Manhattan

“I never liked him.”

“I never would’ve guessed,” she shot back, and he grinned at the sarcasm in her voice.

“He’s a terrible person.” He was just trying to goad her now.

She sighed and rubbed her forehead. She was sitting on the floor, leaned against the front of her sofa beside Barba’s legs. “He’s not,” she countered, resignedly. She stared down into her almost-empty wine glass. “He’s a good man.”

“Fine,” he said. He spoke grudgingly, and she looked over her shoulder to offer him a small smile. “But he wasn’t right for you. Imagine thinking _you_ would ever retire.” He flashed his teeth in another grin, but she could read the sympathy in the softness around his eyes.

“It’s not such a bad idea, is it?” she asked. She knew he was teasing, but the wine wasn’t helping her simmering melancholy. “Settle down with someone and have a life…” She trailed off before she could say more than she meant to reveal.

“Settle _down_?” he asked incredulously.

“You know what I mean.”

He paused, considering his words. “_Settling_ shouldn’t be the foundation of a relationship. Marriage, or whatever,” he finally said. He was looking at her, but a bit askance; regarding her from the sides of his eyes so she wouldn’t see more than he meant to reveal.

“You know what I _mean_,” she repeated, and then it was her turn to pause. “Besides, when did you become such a romantic?” She elbowed gently at his leg.

He made a face. “I’m not.”

“Hmm,” she answered, turning her face forward as she sipped her wine.

“Liv, if you’re second-guessing your decision…” He didn’t finish because the words tasted bitter on his tongue. He touched his fingers to her shoulder automatically, to make up for his inability to _voice_ his support.

“I’m not,” she assured him quietly without looking back. “Right now, it wasn’t right. I couldn’t give him what he wanted…what he deserves…”

“He couldn’t give you what you deserve,” he countered softly.

She cast him a quick smile. “Thanks, but I’m not exactly young, Barba.”

He drew his hand back and settled it onto his own thigh. “You’re not exactly old, Olivia,” he returned.

“No? I’m fifty-two years old. _Fifty-two_. That’s more than half a century.”

“I smell entrapment,” he said, and she laughed quietly as she looked into her wine.

“I thought things would be different by now. Don’t get me wrong, Rafa, adopting Noah was the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I wouldn’t trade that for the world. But I never thought I’d be here alone…Well, I probably should’ve realized, it’s not like I’ve ever been great at relationships, but I swear to God if I don’t find someone to marry me by the time I’m fifty-five…”

She trailed off again, and he let the weight of her words settle over him for a few moments.

“Fifty-five?” he finally asked. “Seems like an arbitrary deadline…”

“Alright,” she answered. She finished the last of her wine and leaned forward to reach for the bottle on the coffee table.

Barba watched her, swallowing at the sight of her shirt stretching tight across her back and shoulders, fighting the overwhelming urge to pull her hair back and tuck it behind her ears for her. Fighting the urge to come up with _any_ excuse to touch her hair, to touch _her_.

“And anyway,” he said, barely aware of the words leaving his mouth, “finding someone who wants to marry _you_ isn’t the problem.”

“All the more reason to stop being so choosy,” she said as she refilled her glass. “But don’t you think I know that they’ll wake up—maybe not the next morning, or the next week, but eventually, they’ll wake up realizing they made a mistake?” She set the bottle down with exaggerated care. “Sorry,” she said before he could answer. She settled back against the couch, her shoulder brushing against his knee, and stretched her legs before herself. “I know you didn’t come over to listen to me feeling sorry for myself.”

“You becoming Noah’s mother isn’t something that _happened_ to you, Liv,” he said. “That’s a decision that _you made_, for yourself and for him. You did it in spite of your fear. And whatever you might be thinking right now because you’re upset and hurting, I can promise you that he doesn’t need anyone else. And if there’s one thing I know about _you_, it’s that you don’t need anyone to _complete you_ or whatever that Jerry Maguire bullshit—”

“Ah, there’s the cynical Barba I know and love,” she muttered, sipping at the alcohol.

He took several beats of silence before saying, “You’re strong, smart, attractive—”

“Don’t hurt yourself.”

“—and you know who you are.”

“I appreciate the pep talk, Rafael, I really do, but just this once could you lie to me and tell me I’ll find someone to be happy and grow old with? I _know_ I don’t need someone else to _make_ me happy, or complete me, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want—” Her voice cracked and she stopped, clearing her throat. She took another small drink.

“You will,” he said quietly. “You’ll find someone who can give you what you want.”

She sighed. “I don’t think I know what I want.”

“Of course you do,” he said, and she looked over her shoulder at him. “You’re just too nice to admit that you haven’t found anyone good enough for you yet.”

She raised her eyebrows. “I don’t think that’s the problem,” she said flatly.

“You know what you want,” he insisted. His eyes were kind but his expression was full of the stubborn determination that she’d so often seen him employ while arguing his case.

“Yeah. I want to be married by the time I’m fifty-five. Or at least with someone who…Never mind.”

“No, let’s problem solve this,” he said. He shifted forward and lowered himself to the floor with an exaggerated wince, carefully stretching his legs beside hers. Their thighs and shoulders were touching, their backs against the front of the sofa. Barba held his glass of scotch propped on his leg. He was nearly ready for a refill, but he was conscious of the buzz already softening the edges of his thoughts. It would be unwise to throw caution completely to the wind, especially when the smell of her shampoo was only adding to the buzz.

She wasn’t wearing perfume. She’d showered and put on a clean t-shirt and sweatpants while he’d been on his way to her apartment with an expensive bottle of wine that he didn’t mean to drink. He knew she’d have scotch on hand for his visit; she always did.

Now, her hair was dry but unusually unkempt, tangled about the sides of her face. Her feet were bare. She was wearing a bra beneath her shirt. He wasn’t proud of the fact that he’d noticed, or that he’d deduced its presence was a direct result of _his_ presence.

“Problem solve,” she repeated, giving him a dirty look.

“It doesn’t matter that _I_ think it’s a ridiculous and arbitrary goal,” he said. He was hoping to at least get a smile.

She laughed and rolled her eyes. “Thanks for the support.”

“Tonight’s about you.”

“Only tonight?”

“Sure, we’ll go back to the world centering around me tomorrow,” he answered without hesitation, and she laughed again as she shook her head. “Tonight let’s make a plan to solve your problem.”

“I’m not sure it’s solvable.”

“Of course it is. You want to be married at fifty-five. That’s not brain surgery. Hell, I could marry you myself.”

She paused only a moment. “Ah yes, a pity proposal, just what every girl wants.”

“Me, pity you? Never. Besides, aren’t you a little old to be referring to yourself as a girl? Withdrawn,” he said quickly, holding up his free hand and leaning away from her for a moment. He laughed, relieved to see the amusement in her expression. “Withdrawn,” he repeated, shifting so their shoulders were once more settled against each other.

“You’re lucky you brought wine.”

He chuckled and took a drink of scotch. From the corner of his eye, he saw her raise her own glass to her lips.

“You’ll be fifty when I’m fifty-five,” she said after several moments of silence.

“I’m sorry my mother didn’t start—well, far too early, really, but if it makes you feel any better we both know I’m going gray at an alarmingly-faster rate than you.”

“I just meant you’ll probably be settled down yourself by then.”

“Settling, again,” he said, wrinkling his nose.

“Fine. Pursuing your _happily ever after_, then.”

“Some of us aren’t meant for fairytales,” he murmured. Then, realizing the pronoun left room for doubt, he clarified: “But that doesn’t mean we can’t find your Prince or Princess Charming. Come on, give me your list of requirements and we’ll narrow down your options.”

“My requirements?”

“Sure. Superficial or otherwise. You seem to like big foreheads—” He broke off with a burst of laughter when she hit her knuckles against his thigh. The look she shot him would’ve been a lot more withering if she could’ve kept the smile from her lips.

“You think you’re hilarious tonight.”

“Just trying to lighten the mood,” he murmured, still smiling as he looked down at his scotch.

“I do appreciate it.” After a moment, she laid her head on his shoulder. He was surprised, but he held himself still, afraid of doing something that would scare her off. He closed his eyes, enveloped by her scent. “I don’t want to talk about…what I find attractive,” she said quietly. “Not with you.”

The last sentence was barely audible, and Barba opened his eyes. His heart was thudding in his chest and there were dangerous words perched on the tip of his tongue. “No?” was all he could manage to say.

“I think I’ve had too much to drink.”

He tried to ignore the clenching fist of disappointment. “Do you want me to leave?”

“What would your mother say if she knew you weren’t planning on being married in the next few years?”

“Nothing I haven’t heard before,” he answered. He took a drink of scotch and let it linger on his tongue, burning.

“It might seem ridiculous and arbitrary, Rafa, but—”

“I’m sorry I said that.”

“—I don’t want to spend the rest of my life alone.”

“You’re not alone. You won’t be alone. If nothing else, you and I will still be squabbling at eighty-five, right? That was the deal.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice,” she muttered, throwing his own words back at him, and he smiled. He kissed the top of her head before he could stop himself. “But don’t you want to wake up beside someone every day knowing they love you with all of their heart? That they know all your secrets and flaws and they love you for exactly who you are, that they chose to commit to you for the rest of your lives?”

He didn’t answer. It wasn’t the scotch burning his tongue, now.

She sighed. “Maybe you’re right. When fifty-five rolls around, I’ll meet you at the courthouse. I’ll promise to make coffee every morning and you can promise to…” She trailed off.

“No courthouse wedding. My mother would never forgive me.”

“Hmm. Big wedding?”

“Moderate,” he countered. “My side will be all the lawyers capable of convincingly tolerating me, your side will be the rest of Manhattan.”

She laughed quietly. “Do you think I could get away with wearing a white gown?”

“You can wear whatever you’d like.” He paused. “We may tell my mother it’s eggshell or something.”

“How many tuxes do you own?”

He snorted softly. “A couple, but I’ll spring for something…”

“Special?”

“Right.”

“Baby blue?”

“God forbid. Unless it’s what you want. You know I’m terrible at saying no to you.”

“I do like that about you,” she murmured, and he grinned. He lifted his arm and slipped it around her shoulders, letting his fingers rest lightly against her upper arm. He almost burrowed his nose into her hair, but he stopped himself in the nick of time. “What about Noah?”

“He might be too old to be ring bearer by then. He could be my best man if you think he can handle making the speech.”

He felt her body go still as she stopped breathing, and he cursed himself, afraid he’d ruined the nice fantasy they’d fallen into. “He’d be so excited,” she finally said.

“We could find matching tuxedos,” he suggested.

“That, I’d love to see.”

“So what about the proposal?”

“Proposal? I thought that’s what this was?”

“Please. If I get married, it’ll only be once. There has to be a good story for Noah to tell his children someday. Come on, think big. What do you want? Full-page ad in the New York Times? One of those airplane banners?”

“Hm. Nothing so gaudy. Maybe…a nice suit.”

“All my suits are nice.”

“And a single rose.”

“In February? Where’m I supposed to find roses?”

“I said _one_—and this is New York, Barba, if it exists you can find it here.”

“Fine. Red?”

“Color of your choice.”

“Should I send a limo to pick you up somewhere?”

“We can meet. Top of the Empire State Building.”

“Who am I, Meg Ryan?”

“At closing.”

“They close at _two a.m._,” he objected.

“Oh, right, that wouldn’t be my birthday anymore. Unless it was the night before…No, you’re right. Earlier is better. Let’s say…ten o’clock.”

“In the morning?”

“No,” she laughed.

“In _February_,” he repeated. “We’ll freeze.”

“You can bundle up over your suit.”

“What’ll you be wearing?”

She hesitated a few seconds. “What do you want me to wear?”

“I’m tempted to say that blue dress…”

“What blue dress?”

He could hear the smile in her voice, so he said, “You know what blue dress. But you’d _really_ freeze, so how about some nice wool pants and a sweater. And parka.”

“That’s sweet,” she said, turning her face to press a quick kiss to his shoulder before settling her cheek against him again. “You want me to bring anything?”

“Snacks.”

She laughed. “Snacks?”

“That’s right. What else do we need?”

“A ring?”

“A ring,” he repeated. He swallowed. “Right, yeah, I’ll…buy a ring, or…should I pick that out…?”

“Don’t you have your grandmother’s ring?”

His heart stumbled in his chest. “Yes—Do you want that?” he asked.

“Oh,” she said, flattening her palm over his chest. He was afraid she was going to look up and see the expression on his face, and he was relieved that she didn’t. “I just thought if you were—You don’t have to, we can get new—”

“It’s yours,” he said, the words tumbling from his tongue before he could swallow them. “If you want it, it’s yours.”

“If we get married…”

“Right.”

“If we’re not married by my fifty-fifth birthday, then we’ll meet at the Empire State Building at ten.”

“I’ll bring a rose and a ring.”

“And I’ll bring snacks.”

“I’ll get down on one knee?”

“Not a deal-breaker.”

“Then it’s a date,” he said. “If you don’t fall in love with someone else in the meantime,” he added.

“If you don’t get married.”

“I won’t,” he said.

“You never know.”

He _did_ know, but he said, “A lot can change in three years. You might hate me.”

“I could never.”

“Oh,” he laughed, “believe me, you—” He stopped abruptly when she lifted her head to look at him.

“Never,” she said. “No matter what happens, you and I will always be…”

“Me and you,” he suggested with a crooked smile.

“Yes. Promise.”

He cocked an eyebrow, trying not to worry about what she might be reading in his eyes. “Promise?”

“Fantasizing is fine, but this is more important. Friendship. Trust. Respect. Forget what I said about love—”

“I don’t know how much value my heart has these days, but if anyone could convince me to love with all of it, it would be you.” Her eyes widened in surprise, and he suddenly realized that he was more intoxicated than he’d thought. He’d let his guard slip too far. He swallowed. “If it comes to that,” he muttered, cursing himself as a coward.

“If I don’t fall in love with…someone else.”

“Right.” His gaze slid to her lips and he turned his face away. “If their loss is my gain.”

“Rafael—”

“I think I’ve had too much scotch,” he said. “I should probably go.” He started to draw his arm from her shoulders, already missing her warmth with a longing that had become painfully familiar.

She grabbed the front of his shirt with a fist. “You could stay.”

He looked at her, his nose and eyes stinging. “You know I love you,” he said. He gave in and ran his hand over her hair, searching her face. “Give yourself a chance,” he whispered. “To grieve and…to find what you deserve.” He leaned forward to kiss her cheek. She started to turn her face and managed to stop herself, so only the corners of their mouths caught. Barba closed his eyes and, hand cupped to the side of her head, pressed his forehead against hers for several seconds.

“Rafael,” she said again.

“I’ll see you Monday morning,” he answered, drawing away reluctantly. He stretched forward to set his glass on the coffee table before gingerly unfolding himself from the floor. He looked down at her. “You’re going to be fine, Liv,” he promised quietly. He managed a small smile. “And anyway, you have a backup plan now, just in case.”

He knew she was about to say something that would make it impossible for him to leave, and he couldn’t let that happen. She was nursing a freshly-broken heart. They’d both had too much to drink. Her son was sleeping in the next room. They had their jobs and cases to think about.

And, most of all, he couldn’t be a rebound fling. His heart wasn’t nearly as weather-hardened as he’d like people to believe, and there was no way it would survive being broken by Olivia Benson. It had already begun to crack under the weight of her unspoken words.

“Try to sleep,” he said, and she answered with a small nod. He was relieved. He was disappointed. He nodded in return and smiled. “Goodnight, Liv.”

“Goodnight, Rafa,” she whispered.

* * *

Benson woke with a start, blinking the dim shapes of her bedroom into focus. Her heart was thudding dully in her chest, and her stomach was clenched tight. For a few moments she wasn’t sure if the memory was real or if it was nothing more than a dream.

As her brain settled into reality, a familiar ache settled around her heart. The memory was real, but it was from a different lifetime. She hadn’t thought of it in years, and it seemed a cruel twist of fate that her brain would choose today of all days to torment her with the past.

She rolled onto her side and hugged a pillow to her chest, desperately trying to swallow the sob bubbling up in her throat. The alarm clock said three a.m., and that meant she was a year older than when she’d gone to bed.

Fifty-five.

She’d long since realized that Barba had been right to call her deadline ridiculous and arbitrary. She’d been brokenhearted that night—that night, a lifetime ago, when she’d looked her best friend in the eyes and realized that she was in love with him in spite of the fact that she was mourning the dissolution of another relationship. That she’d loved him for years.

If she’d told him then, if she’d pushed past her fear, maybe things would’ve turned out differently. Maybe he wouldn’t have walked away from her a year later, leaving her heart shattered beyond possible repair.

She’d found some peace in her life since his departure from it—not because of his absence but in spite of it—but she’d also given up on ever finding that kind of love anywhere else. She’d given up on her stupid goal of being married by fifty-five, given up on the notion that she and Noah _needed_ anyone else to make their family complete. She hadn’t thought about the deal that she and Barba had struck in a long time, but now she realized that the deadline had arrived and her backup plan was gone.

He probably didn’t remember the conversation. He’d been trying to make her feel better that night, and it had worked. She’d taken comfort from his presence, from his friendship, from the belief that they would always be friends.

But now that was gone, too.

She shoved herself up in bed with a sound of annoyance meant to mask the pain clawing its way out of her chest.

“Ridiculous,” she muttered under her breath, throwing back the covers with an angry flick of her arm and kick of her feet. “I didn’t need a husband when I went to sleep—” She stopped, realizing she was talking to herself. Then, out of spite, she added aloud: “We were friends, I never wanted to marry him anyway.”

She wasn’t sure she’d ever told herself a bigger lie, and she couldn’t stop the tears that pooled in her eyes. She drew a shaky breath. _Fine. Maybe I thought about it, but that was a long time ago. I’ve moved on._

She might’ve believed, at least in her conscious mind, that that was true. But Brian Cassidy had stood before her and told her that she was the love of his life, and she’d been able to summon nothing to offer him. Peter Stone had essentially told her he’d fallen in love with her, and she’d felt nothing but annoyance that he was leaving the squad in the lurch. She’d had opportunities to _move on_ and instead had settled into acceptance that she never would.

How fucking pathetic.

She swiped at her damp cheeks, cursing herself as a fool. She needed to let go of Barba and whatever fantasy her subconscious was clinging to about him coming back.

Besides, it wasn’t as though he’d disappeared completely from her life. They still had contact. She could still call him a friend, even if their relationship was little more than a ghost of what it had been. She hadn’t seen him in person in two years. She’d only spoken to him on the phone a dozen times, and never for more than a few minutes.

Phone calls were a painful reminder of how often they’d once lapsed into comfortable silence together. With so much time and space between them, with so much being left unspoken, the silence was no longer comfortable, and one of them was always quick to say, “well, I should let you go…”

The other never objected, and usually ended the conversation with a token, “sure, it was nice to hear from you…”

More than once she’d been struck by an overwhelming desire to blurt out the truth: “I miss you. I love you.” To throw the words into the silence and wait for his response, to know once and for all if she was an idiot who’d imagined something that had never been there.

She reached for her phone on the nightstand, squinting at the brightness of the screen as she unlocked it. She wondered where he was. Sleeping, surely, but where? In his own bed? Was he alone? Would he answer if she called? Would she hear a voice murmuring in the background, asking who was on the phone?

Benson hated the acid churning in her stomach. She hated that she could still feel _jealousy_ two years after _he’d_ walked away and left _her _brokenhearted. He’d never even apologized for throwing away their friendship. For throwing her to the curb as though she’d meant nothing to him.

_That’s not fair_, she thought. She closed her eyes for a moment. No, it wasn’t fair. He’d smashed her heart into a million pieces but he’d never meant to hurt her, and she knew that. She’d never doubted his decency, his humanity. His love for her.

She opened her eyes and pulled up her texts, tapping on his name. She scrolled back; it didn’t take long to find the line between _before_ and _after_. The _before_ section was full of snippets of conversations, half-finished thoughts and abbreviated messages that would look like nonsense to anyone else. She missed that shorthand with an ache deep inside of herself, that ability to understand what the other person was talking about with no context.

The last _before_ text was about his trial, and then there was a two-month gap. _Two months_ without a _single word_, and she could still feel the ghost of the raw pain that had filled those days and nights. She took no comfort from the belief, from the knowledge, that he’d been in as much pain as she had. Perhaps more, because he’d been even more isolated. She’d had her son, her squad. His own mother had been barely speaking to him.

After two months of radio silence, his first text read: **Hey. Would it be ok if I call Noah?**

Her heart had leapt at the sight of his name, and on her second scan of the words she’d burst into tears, thankful she was alone in her bedroom. Even now, they brought fresh tears to her eyes. Although the text was short and straight to the point, she’d been able to _feel_ his hesitance.

**Of course**, she’d answered after a minute. **Any time**.

**Tonight?**

**Sure. Give me five minutes**, she’d responded, because she needed to get herself under control so Noah wouldn’t see the pain plastered all over her face and leaking out of her eyes.

**Thank you**.

She’d wanted so badly to continue the conversation, to ask how he was, _where_ he was, if he wanted to come over for a drink. Instead, she’d taken the next few minutes to compose herself, and then she’d carried the phone into Noah’s bedroom where he was playing with Legos on the floor.

**Ok?** Barba texted. Five minutes, nearly to the second.

**Yes**, she’d answered, and when the phone rang in her hand, she held it toward her son and forced a smile. “Someone wants to talk to you,” she said.

A look of confusion crossed Noah’s young features, but when he took the phone and saw Barba’s face on the screen, he lit up with excitement. He swiped quickly and practically shouted, “Uncle Rafa!”

“I’ll be in the other room,” Benson said, even though Noah wasn’t paying her any attention. She retreated quickly and locked herself in the bathroom where she sobbed for several minutes before splashing cold water on her face and doing her best to look _normal_. When she emerged, Noah was walking out of his room with the phone held down at his side.

For a moment, she held a sliver of hope that Barba had asked to speak to her, but Noah quickly and unintentionally dashed that hope. It was probably for the best; Noah might be unaware of her broken heart, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to hide it, even over the phone, from Barba.

So, she’d listened to Noah excitedly ramble on for several minutes about all the insignificant—yet _deeply significant_—things that Barba had told him: about a squirrel he’d seen do a backflip in the road to avoid a bicycle; a three-legged dog carrying a kitten in a backpack; a man going into the subway with a pigeon perched on his shoulder like a parrot; and more that Benson had since forgotten. Then she’d tucked her son into bed, dodging questions about when he might be able to see Barba.

Alone in her bedroom, she’d stared at her phone, waiting. As though she’d willed it, a two-word text lit her screen: **Thank you**.

**He’s very happy. Thank you**, she’d responded within seconds. Then, not wanting him to feel obligated to follow up, she’d added, **Have a good night.**

Thirty seconds passed, and then: **Goodnight, Liv.**

She’d cried herself to sleep and woke in the morning determined to never let that happen again. She was too old for such foolishness.

One month later, there was another request to call Noah. She’d again given the phone to her son to answer, but Barba had still been on the line when Noah handed the cell back to her after ten minutes. She’d put the phone to her ear, walking toward her room, and said, “Hey.”

“Hi,” he’d answered, and the sound of his voice was a familiar comfort and a dagger to the heart; she didn’t understand how both could be true at once. “Sorry to bother you, I…thought maybe it would be easier to schedule the next phone call now?”

In spite of her pain, she’d smiled at his choice of words. How very _Barba_ to want to schedule an appointment to talk to her five-year-old. “Sure,” she’d said. “I’ll add it to the calendar.”

There was a small “hmm” from the other end of the call where there once would’ve been a chuckle. “I was thinking the first Monday of each month, if that works for you? Same time?”

“Fine,” she’d said.

“Thanks.” Silence, and then: “Well, I should let you go…”

“Right, yeah. Goodnight, Barba.”

“Goodnight.”

She hadn’t cried herself to sleep, which felt like progress.

In between his monthly calls to Noah, there were occasional texts. She congratulated him on his new job, wished him a happy birthday, a merry Christmas. He texted on her birthday, on Easter. She called when she heard that his mother had fallen and broken her shoulder, and they’d talked for a few minutes. He’d asked how she was doing, how Noah was doing. She’d told half-truths and asked how he was doing and listened to half-truths in response. He’d assured her that his mother was fine, too stubborn to let an injury slow her down.

And then it was Benson’s turn to say, “Alright, well…I’ll let you go…”

“It was nice talking to you,” he’d answered.

He texted when Peter Stone quit SVU: **Sorry about Stone.**

**You hated him**, she answered, smiling in spite of herself.

**Doesn’t matter. You and your squad deserve the best.**

**We had the best**, she typed, but she deleted the words without sending them. Instead, she wrote, **We’ll find someone new. We always do.** That felt mean, so before he could respond, she added, **Congrats on the Jung case. Knew you’d get him.**

**You’re the only one**, he returned.

**Wouldn’t be the first time**, she reminded him.

**Yeah**.

**That was a joke.**

**True, though. I have to go. Talk to you soon?**

There was a hopeful note in those last four words, and hope was painful. What could she say? **Sure. Take care.**

He texted when she made Captain: **Congratulations. Long overdue. Give em hell, Captain Benson.**

**Missed you at the ceremony**, she wrote back before she could stop herself.

She wouldn’t have blamed him for a snarky _Didn’t realize I was invited_ response, but what she got instead was, **Sorry. I’m knee-deep in the middle of a big case, heading into deposition in five. **

**I understand. Just didn’t feel the same somehow.** She hadn’t meant to write the words, even though they were true.

**I would’ve been there.**

It was still amazing to her that she could feel his guilt while reading four little words on her screen. And now, on her fifty-fifth birthday as she looked back over their brief exchanges, she realized that he’d tried numerous times to extend a tentative olive branch, and every time she’d shut him down. She hadn’t realized at the time that she was doing it, but in hindsight it was clear.

She let out a shaky breath and tossed her phone onto the bed.

_“A lot can change in three years. You might hate me.”_

_“Never. No matter what happens, you and I will always be…”_

_“Me and you.”_

_“Yes. Promise.” _

There was no chance she would be going back to sleep any time soon, so she got out of bed and walked into the bathroom. She flipped on the light and peered at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were red-rimmed but not too puffy. Her hair was a tangled mess. _Fifty-five_, she thought, giving her head a little shake. It was one of those mythical ages that seemed unattainable to the young, terrifying to the middle-aged, and nostalgic to the elderly.

Or maybe she was overthinking it. The fact of the matter was, she didn’t feel any different or older than she had the day before, and she wasn’t unhappy with her life. She had a career that she loved, even when it broke her heart. She had a son that she loved more than anything in the world, even when he pushed her temper to the brink. She had a squad that she loved as a family, even though she knew they would all move on someday.

Fifty-five was just a number, and all it meant was that she’d managed to survive everything that life had thrown at her. She had everything that she needed to be happy.

“Liar,” she told her reflection.

* * *

Benson stepped off the elevator feeling more like an idiot than ever. Her hands were shaking, and her stomach was a squirming mass of nerves. There were only a few people scattered around the enclosed observation deck, but she pulled her coat tighter over her blue dress, sure that if anyone saw it they would know she’d come to make a fool of herself.

She fought her urge to retreat back into the elevator and instead forced her feet forward. She knew it was a fool’s errand—there was no way he would show up, but she couldn’t leave until she knew for sure. She would always wonder, always regret not knowing.

He’d texted her a **Happy birthday** that morning, but she’d gotten it as she was ushering Noah out the door for school. She had no doubt that Barba had timed the message intentionally so she wouldn’t be able to engage much further than a **Thank you**. All day she’d fought the urge to text him, or to call him, all day she’d tried to convince herself that she had no intention of dragging herself to the top of the Empire State Building in the middle of the night.

She glanced at her watch. She was still a little early, which meant she had to wait until ten o’clock rolled around before she could safely make an escape. He wouldn’t be late. If he had any intention of showing up, he wouldn’t be a minute past ten. In fact, it was more likely he’d be—

Early.

She spotted him and froze, her heart suddenly clambering up into her throat. He was facing away from her, looking out over the city with his hands shoved into his coat pockets, but even after two years she would recognize him anywhere.

Her heart settled back into her chest where it belonged but kept up a steady thudding that she was surprised he couldn’t hear from across the room. She drew a slow breath, trying to calm her nerves.

He turned as though he’d sensed her presence, and his eyes found hers without hesitation. Her breath caught in her chest and she made a tiny sound in the back of her throat. She saw his expression tighten and then soften, saw him run through the whole gamut of emotions. He was surprised. Relieved. Happy. Scared. Guilty.

They stared at each other across the distance for several moments before he started toward her. He moved slowly, cautiously, searching her face as he walked, and the worry etched into his face broke her paralysis. She forced her feet to carry her forward, and they met somewhere in the middle, stopping an arm’s length away from each other.

“Happy birthday,” he said quietly, one side of his mouth quirking up into a smile. His hands were still stuffed into his pockets. His coat was buttoned up to his throat beneath a knotted scarf. His cheeks and ears were red.

“Thanks,” she answered. A sense of unreality washed over her as she looked at him. There were so many things that she wanted to say, she didn’t know where to start. The words tangled on her tongue.

“I didn’t know this place was enclosed,” he said, drawing one gloved hand from his pocket to gesture vaguely toward the windows.

“You’ve never been up here?”

He shook his head. He glanced away, then back at her face, unable to keep his gaze away.

“Ah,” she said, “no wonder you thought we’d freeze.” It was an acknowledgment of the conversation—the vow—that had brought them together here and now, but they skated around the fact.

“Too many movies,” he said, tugging the fingers of his glove and stripping it, then the other, off. He stuffed them into his pocket and reached up to loosen the knot of his scarf.

“There’s an open deck down below,” she said.

He nodded. “I figured that out,” he answered with a small laugh. “I wasn’t sure…where…” He trailed off and chewed the inside of his cheek.

“I’ve missed you,” she said, barely above a whisper, because now that she was looking at him she couldn’t _not_ say it. She reached out a hand and touched her fingers to the front of his coat, fighting the urge to grab him and never let go. “Rafael.” His name broke in her throat, and she saw his expression tighten and almost crumple in response.

“I’m sorry, Liv,” he said. He swallowed, but she could still hear the lump in his throat when he added, “I’m so sorry that I ruined our friendship.”

She shook her head. “I didn’t think you’d be here.”

“I didn’t think you’d be here,” he echoed quietly.

She fisted her hand in his coat and stepped forward, pressing her forehead against his shoulder. After a moment’s hesitation, his arms went loosely around her. Then, when he’d assured himself she wasn’t going to pull away, his embrace tightened. She felt his lips brush her temple.

“But we both showed up,” she murmured. She took a moment to simply smell him and feel his warmth.

“A promise is a promise…”

She snorted. “Please, I’d never hold you to that stupid thing. I just wanted to see you.” She stepped back a little and he let his arms drop to his sides. She swiped at her eyes and regarded him with a smile. “You look good. Still going gray faster than me, I see.”

His lips curved, but his eyes were serious. “Anything for a friend,” he joked. He tipped his head a little. “You said you could never hate me, Liv. Has that changed?” She could see the worry in his eyes, could see him bracing himself for her answer.

“No.” She took another step backward and gathered her courage, resisting the urge to glance around. It didn’t matter who might be watching; all that mattered was Barba, and his gaze was locked on her. She pulled open her coat and his eyes slid down, widening slightly at the sight of the form-hugging blue dress. He swallowed hard, and when his stare returned to hers she offered a self-deprecating smile and half-shrug. “I don’t need to be married or engaged or anything else, not today, not next year, not in ten years. You were right, it was a ridiculous thing, but you were kind enough to humor me.”

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a package of peanut M&Ms. She held them out and he took the bag automatically with a small chuff of laughter, giving his head a little shake. He slipped the candy into his pocket.

“All I need is for you to be in my life, Rafael.”

“If you want me, I’m here.” He’d begun to unbutton his coat. “If there’s a chance you can forgive me…”

“I’ve always loved you,” she said, and his fingers faltered for a few seconds. “That’s never changed and it never will. Maybe we can talk about our feelings for once.”

He slipped his hand into his coat and pulled out a red rose. He looked at it for a moment, his expression tightening. “It’s a little worse for wear,” he muttered. “I should’ve taken it out of my pocket as soon as I got inside but I was afraid of scaring you away if you showed up.”

She took it from him when he held it out, their fingers brushing as his gaze flicked back up to hers. “I hope you didn’t go to any trouble,” she said, and his lips quirked into a smile.

“You can find anything in New York,” he reminded her. “And it turns out, pretty easily. Roses aren’t as seasonal as I thought.”

She laughed, watching him finish unbuttoning his coat. “So, you’re not a florist.”

“Botanist,” he said with the hint of a smirk.

“That either. Smartass,” she added under her breath, and he chuckled quietly as he shrugged out of his coat. “What are you doing?” He pulled the scarf from his neck and glanced around before draping the coat and scarf over the nearest binoculars tower. “Do you know how many germs are probably on that thing?” she asked as her heart and stomach fluttered at the sight of his tailored suit.

He shot her an amused look. “You’ve spent too much time with Carisi.”

“I live with a walking petri dish,” she shot back.

“How is he?” he asked.

She tried to ignore the way her heart tripped over itself when he fished a small box out of the front pocket of his slacks. “He’s good. Quite the little baseball star this year but he wants to get into dance classes.”

“Yeah? Good for him.”

“He’s going to be in the Spring musical. He’s a munchkin. If you want to come.”

“I would love to see that,” he answered, and she could hear the sincerity in his voice. “Maybe we could take in a Broadway show, make sure he’s _really_ bitten by the theater bug.”

She laughed a bit breathlessly. “I can already hear his excitement. If you want to take him, just the two of you, I don’t mind.”

“Trying to get out of it?” he teased.

“Oh, I’d love to go to the theater with you, Barba, but I thought you might want to spend some time alone with him.”

He swallowed and nodded. He looked down at the box in his hand. “I appreciate that. We’ve got some catching up to do.”

“Not too much,” she returned. “The last time you called, he talked your ear off for half an hour.”

Barba smiled. “This is my _abuelita’s_ ring,” he said softly, turning the box between his long fingers. “I’ve never wanted for a single moment to give it to anyone but you.” His eyes found hers. “I want to make a proposal, Liv. I want to ask you to give me a year to prove I deserve another chance, to convince you to accept this ring. I know I _don’t_ deserve it, but I promise that if you make coffee every morning, I’ll spend every day doing everything in my power to make sure you’re happy.”

She blinked the tears from her eyes and cleared her throat. “Does that mean you won’t argue with me?”

He smiled. “I said everything in my power. I’m only human, Liv.”

She laughed. “Life would be boring without squabbling.” She paused. “I’ve missed it.”

“Me, too,” he murmured. He looked at the ring box again. “I don’t know how good a husband I’d make, but I do know I’m a better man with you than without.”

She released a shaky breath. “That’s a pretty good proposal, Counsellor,” she said. “But you realize in a year I’ll be fifty-six?”

“Maybe by then my hairline will start receding.”

She laughed again and stepped toward him. He searched her face as his throat bobbed. “I like your forehead the way it is, even when you get all frowny.”

He got frowny in response, except for his lips. His lips wouldn’t stop smiling, and she could relate to the problem. It might be her birthday, but she felt like she’d just shed several years. Her smile only grew wider when he said, “I love you, Olivia. I love you with all the dark corners of my heart that you lit up.” He grimaced. “Okay, that sounded better in my head. But I think you know—”

She leaned in and kissed him, pressing her lips against his to shut him up. He made a sound in his throat and his arm went around her, pulling her closer. He drew a deep breath through his nose and shifted his lips away, touching his forehead to hers. He reached down and slipped the ring box into her free hand.

“Will you hold onto this for me?” he asked, drawing back far enough to meet her eyes. “Until the time comes you might let me slip it onto your finger?”

“Yes.” She gave him another quick kiss. “I love you, Rafael.” She kissed him again, and this time his lips caught and held hers until she’d melted against him. When she could finally speak, she whispered, “Let’s get out of here.”

“Liv?”

“Hmm.”

“Can I say ‘you complete me’ now?”

“Wrong movie. This is the one where ‘What a Wonderful World’ starts to play.”

“Oh.” He hummed a bit, then grinned and held out his arm. “Can I open the snacks?”

“In the car,” she answered as she slipped the ring into her pocket and looped her arm through his. He reached back and grabbed his coat and scarf, draping them over his other arm. “You’ll freeze,” she warned.

“No,” he said, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Not with you around.”

“When did you become such a romantic?”

“Moment I met you,” he said, laughing when she rolled her eyes. "Where are we going?"

"Guess we'll figure out when we get there," she answered with a smile.


End file.
